


Chasing Dami

by incorrectbatfam



Series: Jondami Week 2021 [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, JonDami Week (Super Sons), LGBTQ Themes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam
Summary: Jon didn’t understand. Everything Damian loves is here, so why would he leave it all behind?~Jondami Week day 3: Partners in crime |Running away| Background swap
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Jondami Week 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186607
Comments: 5
Kudos: 122
Collections: Jondami Week 2021





	Chasing Dami

> **Until the 1960s, The Castro was a working-class Irish neighborhood known as Eureka Valley. A shift occurred during and after World War II, when many soldiers came to San Francisco and—**

Jon yawned for the third time in two minutes, and that was his sign to close the book for the night. He crammed the hardcover in his bag and leaned back on the squeaky swivel chair. Though he told himself he’ll do fine on next week’s final, the fear of not being able to maintain straight A’s pressed against the front of his skull like a tiny person was trying to shove their way out. And here he thought Kryptonians didn’t _get_ headaches.

Middle school seriously stinks.

He took off his headphones, rubbed his eyes, and checked the time. 

His stomach growled. 

Time for a snack.

The halls were devoid of light or movement. For a second, he thought his parents had already turned in, but it’s only nine-thirty and he knew they liked their ten o’clock cup of chamomile while talking about taxes or whatever adult conversations were about. Static electricity traveled up his fuzzy socks before releasing itself when his knuckle brushed the bathroom doorknob. The floorboard before the stairs—the one that always creaked to alert his father—was silent when Jon stepped on it, as though it wanted him to be quiet too. 

“Poor Bruce, I can’t imagine how worried he must be.”

Jon stopped. He crouched at the top of the staircase, masked by the safety of the shadows (and the potted fern). From his vantage point, he saw his mom sitting at the kitchen table and his dad shuffling back and forth in his slippers.

His dad sighed. “The last I recalled, Damian was going great, both in school and in heroing. Although I can’t be completely sure. Maybe Jon knows something we don’t, since they spend so much time together. Maybe Damian confided something in him.”

“If he does, how would we ask?” said his mom. “How will he break it to him that Damian just… _left_? It’d devastate him.”

He blinked, taken aback. _Left?_ What did they mean by _left_?

“It’s always tough when kids run away,” his dad said. “It’s been less than a day, but Damian’s his best friend. The longer we keep it from him, the more he’ll resent us when he finds out.”

_Damian ran away?_

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” his mom said. “We’ll tell him after school, that way he has the weekend to process it.”

“Hopefully, the Waynes will find him by then. Bruce said he’s got all hands on deck and they’re currently combing through Gotham.”

A lump lodged itself in Jon’s throat. Suddenly, he wasn’t so hungry. He backed away until he was in his room again.

If he wasn’t indestructible, his lip would be bleeding from how hard he bit it. Hot steam clouded his eyes as shaky fingers ran through his hair. Jon didn’t understand. Everything Damian loves is here, so why would he leave it all behind? This is _Damian_ they’re talking about. Damian never did anything without an explanation, even if the explanation was as simple as _“I was told to”_. Jon _needed_ to make sense out of this.

Heavy thumps echoed up the stairs. He dove into bed and pulled the covers over his body. Squeezing his eyes shut, he evened his breathing as the door opened and light flooded the room. 

Two seconds later, the door closed, and he heard his father telling his mother he’s asleep. 

The bathroom faucet ran. Jon waited until it stopped, which felt like _forever_. After his parents went to their room, he counted to a hundred before rolling out of bed.

He dumped the books out of his backpack and shoved in a set of clothes, his allowance—seventy-five dollars and fifty cents, a pack of gum, a handful of leftover Halloween candy, an empty water bottle, his phone charger, and a stick of deodorant. After changing into his Superboy uniform, he slid open the window soundlessly. Balanced on the sill, he took a deep breath and pushed off into the night.

He touched down on the Wayne Enterprises rooftop, where he ran a scan of every Bat in town. Surely one of them would give him answers. Hunched over the railing like a Robin, he weighed his options. The majority were in the Batcave, probably tracing Damian’s phone or something, and among the ones who were out, most of them had their hands full with robbers and the Riddler. 

Dirty puddle water leeched into his shoe as he landed in a Crime Alley backstreet. He straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat.

Jason whirled around, instinctively drawing his gun. Jon didn’t flinch. 

Jason lowered the gun, confused. “What do you want?”

“I wanna know what happened to Damian.”

Jason tucked the gun in his waistband. “You know as much as I do. All we know so far is Dick went down to the Cave and found a note taped to Damian’s locker. He didn’t take his sword or mask or nothin’, but he took all his money plus swiped some from B-man’s wallet—five grand. His bike and phone are in the garage, too. They’ve been trying to trace him all night, but nothing’s turned up.”

“What’d the note say?”

“Heck if I know. It’s the most cryptic thing I’ve seen.” Jason leaned against the brick wall and lit a cigarette. “Does your dad know you’re out?”

“That’s not the point.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.” He flicked the ashes into a trash can. “Go home, kid. We don’t know the risks of the situation yet. Let the grown-ups do the work, m‘kay?”

“But Damian’s my friend!” Jon exclaimed. “I wanna help!”

“There’s nothing you can do that we already haven’t tried. I’ll say it one last time, go home. Otherwise, I’m gonna call Superman myself.” Finishing the cigarette, Jason stomped on the butt and hopped on his bike. 

Jon mumbled some unflattering words under his breath and kicked a pebble aside as the motorcycle left him in a cloud of exhaust fumes. The taillights were quickly fading in the night mist.

He followed.

Careful to keep his distance and remain inconspicuous, Jon trailed Jason back to the Batcave. He ducked behind a rock as the garage door rolled up like a humongous mouth. Jason didn’t slow down until he rolled onto the runway over the gaping chasm. Jon slipped in. He stepped over the edge and hovered in the pitch black, sweaty palms pressed against the rugged limestone, not daring to breathe in case it echoed like every other minuscule movement in the room.

“Any sign of Damian?” Barbara asked.

“Nope.” Jason cracked his neck. “You?”

“Not yet,” Dick said, fingers rapidly tapping against the desk. “What if something happened to him?”

“We can’t jump to conclusions,” Barbara said. “Right now, the evidence isn’t pointing to any sort of foul play.”

Jason walked across the platform and set his helmet down with a thunk before picking up the folded piece of paper next to it. His brows crinkled. “I think Dick might be onto something.”

Barbara rested her forehead in her hands. “Don’t entertain his—”

“Hear me out. This doesn’t look like Damian’s writing.”

“Tim ran a handwriting analysis,” she said. “It’s a match.”

“But does it? Listen to this.” Jason cleared his throat. “ _‘For, in the end, aren’t all societies the same, condemning those who speak, act, or dare to feel in ways they shouldn’t?’_ Don’t you hear it? It may be Damian’s writing, but it’s _not_ his writing, if you get what I’m saying.”

“That still doesn’t _definitively_ lead to anything.”

Dick groaned. “I’m gonna see if Bruce has any leads.”

“And I’m gonna take a shower,” said Jason.

The two left, making Barbara the only person in the cave, tapping away at the giant computer, her back facing toward Jon. The table with the note was close—an arm’s length away.

He reached out and snatched it. He sank back into the darkness, tucking the note in his shirt pocket.

She whipped her head around. “Who’s there?”

He held his breath.

She wheeled over to the coffee machine. “Guess it’s time for a refill.”

Jon waited a few minutes, until she returned to work, before slipping out the door. 

He picked a random rooftop to read Damian’s note. 

Jason’s right. It _is_ cryptic.

> **My beloved family and friends, I apologize for my haste in writing this letter, and believe me when I say this is a shortened version of everything I wish to say. I have discovered a punishable realization about myself that’ll tarnish our reputation. It hasn’t been eating away at me as much until recently, when everyone’s been asking who I really am. I can’t tell you why because I do not wish for your last image of me to be an ugly one. For, in the end, aren’t all societies the same, condemning those who speak, act, or dare to feel in ways they shouldn’t? If the truth’s uncovered, you would live the rest of your lives knowing you hosted an abomination. Whether I live happy and right’ll be my responsibility. I left a list of my possessions under my bed, and I wish for them to be distributed as I indicated. Expressing emotions has never been my strong suit, but one’s bound to let people know how they feel eventually when they make a decision as permanent as this. When you see this, I hope you know I love you and will miss you all dearly.**

Jon scratched his head. It was Damian’s handwriting—the same cursive on every school assignment—but the words felt far from his. But Jon couldn’t place his finger on why.

Looks like he’s doing this the Kryptonian way.

He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of Damian’s heartbeat—something he knew all too well from falling asleep on each other during movies and the countless hugs (not all of which were reluctant). It sounded like safety. It sounded like home away from the farm.

It sounded like it was coming from the West. 

Jon shot off.

Past the shimmering cities of the Atlantic Coast.

Past Appalachia’s nocturnal wilderness.

Over the churning indigo Mississippi River and beyond the Midwestern wheat fields painted purple by the twilight. 

By two o’clock, he was above Colorado. Frozen crystals strung his face and his muscles felt like lead. His stomach grumbled, and he wasn’t sure if his candy and gum could keep him satisfied much longer.

He stopped a few miles short of the snow-capped Rockies in front of a sign reading: _Manitou Springs, pop. 5,283_. He spotted a motel’s glowing pink vacancy sign down the street and hoped he had enough for one night.

Jon popped a mini Snickers into his mouth and pushed the door open. It reeked like hot skunk farts, and the air was hazy like an old color photograph. The twenty-something-year-old employee stared blankly into space with bloodshot pink eyes—probably because he has to work such a late shift. The sign behind the employee said the place was established in 1960, which explained the peeling walls.

He tiptoed and rang the bell. “One room, please. How much is that?”

The employee sluggishly typed on a computer that was twice as old as Jon. “Forty-five dollars.”

Jon counted out the fives and singles, tucking the remaining thirty in his back pocket. 

The employee handed him a tiny brass key. “Room 231. Breakfast’s at eight.”

“Awesome, thank you!”

As Jon fumbled with the lock, his ears perked up.

_“He’s a twelve-year-old boy around four feet eight with black hair and blue eyes. My husband last saw him in his room at around nine forty-five before we went to bed. I got up a couple of hours later to get a drink and when I checked his room, his window was open and he was gone.”_

Why doesn’t the world just stab him with an ice pick? It’d be less painful.

“I’m trying to listen for his heartbeat, but something’s interfering—lead, I think. _”_

Stupid lock. Why wouldn’t it unlock? Jon jiggled the key, whining frustratedly. 

_“Babs, have you seen the note? I can’t find it anywhere.”_

_“No, and Clark just informed me Jon’s missing too.”_

_“Damnit, I told the kid to go home. The little twerp must’ve followed me here and taken the note.”_

The door unlocked. Jon scrambled inside and slammed it shut behind him.

After a brief lukewarm shower, he turned on the TV, hoping to drown out the noise in his head. The only channel they had was NBC, so he’s stuck with Wheel of Fortune, but whatever. It’s good enough.

Laying on the lumpy mattress and coarse sheets, Jon gazed at the note. “Where are you, Dami?”

He read it again and again. Even if the words were confusing, the handwriting was Damian’s. Jon closed his eyes.

He’s at school, in the courtyard, sitting across from Damian at a bumpy stone picnic table. The corner of Damian’s tongue peeks out as he takes notes from his social studies textbook. He always uses long words and never tries to abbreviate things, even if it’d speed up the process. His fountain pen dances across the page with each delicate curl like a ballerina twirl; his other hand basks in the midday sun, less than an inch from Jon’s. 

Jon glances down, and his stomach flutters. Their eyes meet as Damian explains what’s on the page and—God, was Damian’s always this green? When Damian quizzes him, Jon stutters out the wrong answer. Damian utters his little “tt”. Jon’s heart skips a beat. He wouldn’t mind the Flash freezing time right about now.

His eyes snapped open.

He rummaged through the nightstand until he found a pen and notepad. Jon uncapped the pen with his teeth and turned back to the note.

Of course. How did he not notice before? The letter didn’t sound like Damian because he wasn’t writing normally. He wasn’t trying to write normally. Normal Damian never used contractions in text.

Jon took a fine-tooth comb through the note, Robin-style. Twenty minutes later, he held his product to the pale yellow lamplight.

> **My beloved family and friends, I apologize for my haste in writing this letter, and believe me when I say this is a shortened version of everything I wish to say. I have discovered a punishable realization about myself** **that’ll** **tarnish our reputation. It** **hasn’t** **been eating away at me as much until recently, when** **everyone’s** **been asking who I really am. I** **can’t** **tell you why because I do not wish for your last image of me to be an ugly one. For, in the end,** **aren’t** **all societies the same, condemning those who speak, act, or dare to feel in ways they** **shouldn’t** **? If the** **truth’s** **uncovered, you would live the rest of your lives knowing you hosted an abomination. Whether I live happy and** **right’ll** **be my responsibility. I left a list of my possessions under my bed, and I wish for them to be distributed as I indicated. Expressing emotions has never been my strong suit, but** **one’s** **bound to let people know how they feel eventually when they make a decision as permanent as this. When you see this, I hope you know I love you and will miss you all dearly.**

“That’ll hasn’t everyone’s can’t aren’t shouldn’t truth’s right’ll one’s”? It still didn’t make sense. And here he thought he was getting somewhere.

He stepped out of the room and refilled his water bottle at the fountain. While he was at it, he grabbed a bag of chips from the vending machine, having nibbled through his candy stash while deciphering the letter.

On the TV, a contestant guessed the first letter of the winning word.

_Wait._

Jon flipped to a new page.

> **T-H-E C-A-S-T-R-O**

_The Castro_.

_Where had he heard that before?_

He typed it into his phone and screenshotted the map. It’s the same place from his history book. The Castro: a famous gay neighborhood in San Francisco, and Jon had a feeling that fact itself held all his answers.

Sighing contently, he turned off the TV and laid back, letting images of sugar plums and little birds prance through his head.

The next morning, after shoveling as many pancakes into his face as he could, he packed his few belongings, left a tip for the housekeeper, and was airborne once again—this time with a solid plan.

He increased his altitude over the Rockies. Even then, when he reached his arm out, he could brush the icy peaks. Jon flew headfirst into a goose near Reno. He stopped at the top of one of the Sierra Nevada for a selfie because he’s _gonna_ find Damian and show it to him. He waved to the people of Oakland, and as quickly as he entered the city, he left its limits and soared into the bustling Bay Area. 

Giggling, he circled the Golden Gate Bridge as he searched for Damian’s heartbeat. He whooped in delight when he found it—found Damian. 

(He caught himself before he could say “his Damian”.)

Jon almost forgot it was June until he spotted the revelry of vibrant floats lining the street. A sequin-clad acrobatic crew flipped down the road. Event organizers handed out informational pamphlets and pronouns pins. Hundreds—no, thousands, maybe even tens of thousands—of spectators from all walks of life stood on either side with glitter, balloons, and confetti. The wondrous noise filling the air was like a mix between a concert and an even bigger concert. If he weren’t on a mission, he’d hop on the tallest float, tie a rainbow flag as his new cape, and announce to the world, “My name is Superboy, and I think guys are cute.” 

His eyes locked on a restaurant balcony overlooking the parade. 

He landed carefully on the transparent glass floor, where, below, people didn’t even notice him as they went about their lives with confidence and pride. 

“Hey.”

Damian leaned against the metal railing, gazing longingly at the celebration. “You solved it.”

Jon nodded mutely.

Damian patted the spot next to him. The pair watched the parade in silence for several minutes. Yet, as relieved and overjoyed as Jon was to see Damian, one question itched the front of his brain.

“Why?”

“I was scared.” Damian’s voice remained steady and numb. “I still am.”

A cannon propelled a cloud of silver glitter, and the breeze carried it until it settled in the boys’ hairs like the snowfall in a Christmas card.

Damian continued. “I heard stories of children being disowned for their orientation. I thought I would take a preemptive measure and save the hassle.”

“No offense, D, but you realize how irrational that sounds, right?”

“I know. That is why I left that note.” He carded his fingers through his spiky hair, and glitter trickled down like a waterfall. “I dared hope somebody would want to find me—I suppose that is your influence. But before that, I wanted answers.”

“Why not just, like, use the internet?” Jon asked. “It’s what I did.”

“The internet only made matters more puzzling. There was as much vitriol as support. I did not know whom to listen to, so I thought I would find out from the community directly.”

Their hands hung over the railing. If Jon even twitched his pinky, it’d come in contact with Damian’s. 

“I have much to improve on,” Damian said. “I was taught homosexuality is a severely punishable offense because I would be incapable of producing an heir for my grandfather. After I arrived here, people preached similar ideas about how it is a sin.”

“It’s not,” Jon said. “It’s really not.”

“Which is what I have been trying to re-teach myself. It is turning out to be a longer process than I anticipated.”

Sunlight danced in Damian’s eyes, like gold flakes on a polished emerald. He pursed his lips. Jon could tell he wanted to say something else—he could hear the gears turning in his head as loudly as his heartbeat.

Damian said, “There is… another thing I was scared of.”

Jon scooted closer. Their forearms were now pressed against each other. If Damian noticed, he didn’t mention it.

“I was scared of how my identity would affect the people around me. My father’s image. My siblings that are still in school. I was afraid if I came out, people would turn it against everybody I cared about, and it would taint my relationships and… and especially what I have with you. The feelings I harbor would ruin—”

Just like that, Jon’s kissing Damian. And Damian’s kissing back. It was awkward and clumsy as Jon tried to bend down the same time Damian tried to tiptoe, but it’s everything beautiful in life tied together with a honey-vanilla bow. 

They pulled apart. Jon asked, “You were saying?”

The half-smirk, half-smile that Jon spent hours on end daydreaming about was back. 

Damian shook his head. “Never mind, it's not important.”

**Author's Note:**

> The text at the beginning is a modified excerpt from the article [“The Castro: The Rise of a Gay Community”](https://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=The_Castro:_The_Rise_of_a_Gay_Community#:~:text=Until%20the%201960's%2C%20though%2C%20the,after%20being%20discharged%20for%20homosexuality.), which is an interesting historical read in itself.
> 
> Also, the reason Clark couldn’t hear Jon at the motel is because buildings constructed prior to 1978 used lead paint on their walls.


End file.
